At least until my ride home showed up.
Jonathan and Pedro. What was I thinking? The hospital should have kept me for brain surgery because clearly I needed it. Relying on the tender mercies of those two was just asking for it. They were proud graduates of the Marquis de Sade School of Nursing. When they came to fetch me, the epidural hadn’t worn off, and I still had no feeling from the waist down. Jonathan and Pedro saw this as a wicked opportunity. On the short trek across the parking lot to the car, my legs were starting to get a little feeling back, but not much.
Jonathan and Pedro would pick me up, pretending to help, then fake distraction and leave me wobbling until my inevitable flop to the ground. They would repeat this shtick over and over as though experiencing it for the first time, every time. They thought their comedy act was gold, and if it weren’t for my eventual recovery, they probably would have taken this show on the road.
The day after surgery, I was back in the gym taking shots at the basket. I knew I shouldn’t try to jump, but my arms still worked. The UCFV tryouts were just around the corner. The coach didn’t want me to risk it, though, and pulled the plug. “I know you’re really trying,” he apologized, “but you’re not at 100 percent.”
It took months of rigorous training and rehab to get myself back on the court. At the end of the school year, I went back to Calgary with the goal of trying out for the Mount Royal College team. I was determined to make it. However, within a week, I rolled an ankle on the court, strained the ligaments, and that was it.
Done.
Five years passed with me rarely touching a basketball. I was working as a flight attendant for WestJet when a passenger overheard me talking about basketball on a flight from Calgary to the tiny Alberta oil town of Grande Prairie. He turned out to be the head of the athletics department at a small college there.
“Come play for us,” he urged me. He had a young, undisciplined team. He could use a more mature player. I couldn’t believe I was being recruited at 25. It sounded too farfetched to be real, but on the other hand, it was so random that it had to be a sign, right? This could be it. My one truly last chance to play in-season college ball. Maybe it was too late to still picture myself playing alongside the pros I idolized, like Michael Jordan and Penny Hardaway, but if I didn’t take this final shot, I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life.
I reported for a two-day tryout camp in Grande Prairie. We kept at it for eight hours a day. My heart was pounding out of my chest. By the end of the second day, I had busted a finger, been cracked in the nose, and hit in the eye by flying elbows out on the court. There were blisters the size of silver dollars on the bottoms of my feet. As beat up as I was, I felt alive. It was going to happen this time. I had lost out before and would not lose out again.
My winning moment came when we were playing a round of “kings court,” which is basically one-on-one play where the coach could see how we matched up. I was on defense against a kid who was 6-foot-11. He had a cocky demeanor and was used to dominating on the court. But he was 18, and I could see through the tough exterior to the insecure immaturity inside. He drove to the hoop and then popped up for a short jump shot. I played the defensive dance like a pro and blocked him on the shot. In fact, I blocked him so hard I knocked him down to the ground. I then gained possession of the ball, circled around the three-point line and turned to the offensive. Before he could get up, I summoned all of my inner Air Jordan and took flight. Michael Jordan’s signature dunk was from the foul line and I had emulated this for years. At 43 inches, my vertical leap was higher than that of many NBA players. I soared over the beached baller and dunked on top of him before he could even get up. This is the ultimate humiliation for another player. It was like me marking my territory on the court. Not five minutes after this, the coach offered me a spot on the team as power forward in the starting lineup.
I moved to Grande Prairie, enrolled in college, and convinced JD to get a transfer from the Calgary bank where he worked to their Grande Prairie branch. I bought a mobile home on five acres to live in and eventually flip.
After a few weeks, several truths started to sink in. I was in an oil town in the middle of nowhere, clinging on to an adolescent dream that wouldn’t take me any farther. I was already considered to be in my golden years as far as a basketball career. On the other hand, I hadn’t even scratched the surface of what I could accomplish in real estate or television. Most importantly, I realized I had left Jonathan struggling to run our business solo. I had made a big mistake. This wasn’t propelling my life forward, creating my own destiny. It was going backwards, trying to rewrite what was already history. I finished fixing up the mobile home, sold it for a tidy profit, and headed back to the real estate business Jonathan and I were growing.
I couldn’t regret making the move to Grande Prairie because it helped me refocus on what was most important. I had matured, and my new goals reflected that. When I made my decision to move to Vancouver to pursue my greatest passion, I appreciated the difference between fulfilling a fantasy and forging a future.
Yet here I was now at the exact same turning point I’d been at with basketball. Maybe my career in entertainment wasn’t meant to be, either, but I still had a few months to give it one last Grande Prairie try.
Much as I enjoyed all the classes that jammed my Vancouver calendar, I needed more hands-on experience, especially since I hadn’t landed any notable roles yet. I was hungry to learn more about the logistics of creating a feature film or TV series. Jonathan and I had been making our own short films since high school, and I knew how to do an indie film for fun, guerrilla-style, but I wanted to get serious about it now. I approached a production coordinator I’d met to ask about interning with her. It was the major leagues. Big stars and multi-million dollar budgets. No naked zombies.
“You don’t have to pay me,” I offered. “I’ll be your assistant and do whatever you need me to. Get coffee, run the copy machine, answer phones, whatever. I just want the education. It’s a good deal for you, because I’m going to do the work of three students just out of film school.” I was put on the payroll as a second assistant coordinator, pretty much the bottom of the food chain. They gave me a three-week project, and I kicked ass enough to be brought back as coordinator (the same position as the person who’d hired me in the first place). Each assignment thereafter boosted me up another level, until I was a unit producer, which meant I was pretty much running the production office.
Trying to soak up everything I could whenever I was on set, I kept spotting ways the production could be more cost-effective. Everyone was so wrapped up in the creative process, they were overlooking ways to make life easier on the business end. I wasn’t in a position to tell them what to do, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t show them. My chance came during the filming of a movie called Dancing Ninja, starring David Hasselhoff as a mixed–martial arts fighter. When it came to shooting a big fight scene at the sports arena, the filmmakers realized they couldn’t have an empty parking lot outside if there was supposed to be a giant match inside with crowds cheering. The lot should have been full of luxury tour buses and fancy sports cars, but there was no budget to rent them.
“Let me have that,” I said. The gift of gab had served me well so far, and I went into super-salesman mode. I called a touring company and talked them into letting me have four buses. I lined up a small fleet of sexy new cars—a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, Corvettes, limousines. And we didn’t have to pay a dime. That shoot day was a huge success, and the producers and director were blown away by what I had pulled off. Maybe I didn’t get to live out my lifelong fantasy of playing a Marvel superhero onscreen that all-or-nothing year, but I felt like one that day.
I couldn’t bask in the glory, though. There were more pressing issues on my mind.
I had managed to spend all my savings and run up all my credit cards over the course of that year. I spent about a hundred thousand dollars
. My savings were completely gone, and I found myself lying awake one night in bed, my mind racing, unable to sleep for the first time in my life. I pictured myself at age 60, broke and living in a rundown apartment the size of a matchbox, contributing nothing to the world.
A Jim Cuddy single on the country charts kept playing inside my head, the chorus echoing for days. “You could always pull me through . . .” is how it went.
At first, I heard only a sad lament over something lost forever. But that line stayed with me, and the more I repeated it, the more I saw it as something else altogether: A message to my braver self.
An incantation.
I decided to regroup instead of retreat. I quickly got licensed in Vancouver and went back to real estate. Jonathan had hired Geoff and Shirine Gordon, two brilliant Realtors, to fill the void when I left Alberta, and business had never been better. Expanding to British Columbia made sense. I could take on clients, still go on auditions, and keep working my new contacts in film and TV. Jonathan and I had both poured so much into realizing our respective dreams, but we were in no way satisfied or ready to settle. Destiny couldn’t be done with us yet.
I dusted off my agent arsenal, eager get out there again and help people find their own dream to dwell in. I could use the same marketing materials Jonathan and I had developed. I made a mental note to have him tone down the high-beam smiles. Maybe the slogan wasn’t so dumb, after all, though. “Let our team work for you . . .”
Am I ever glad I did.
Drew
Just to be clear, I have no intention of ever abandoning my hosting work with Jonathan. Too much fun. That said, I’ve become very good at balancing different passions, and I feel there are many roles out there calling my name. . . .
Superhero would be my dream screen role for sure. I loved Marvel and DC comics as a kid, so to play out my childhood fantasy of being superhuman would be amazing. I’d want one with plenty of white-knuckle stunts. Even better if I could swap out the tights for something cooler from my sock collection.
I’ve also always wanted to play a cowboy. That would be a great tribute to my parents and how we were raised on a ranch. Dad even wrote a feature Western script that I hope we can produce in the next five years. Any chance to delve into my Scottish history through a medieval character would be exciting, too. I could be a knight, king, or, as my closet full of shoes can attest, even a cobbler.*
*You just left yourself wide open for a Jester comment.
Like any actor, I’d love the opportunity to appear in a recurring role on a TV series, or be cast in a feature film alongside a powerhouse talent like Denzel Washington, Leonardo di Caprio, or Emma Stone.
One incredible role I was fortunate enough to play was in an indie film called The Pulse. I was a widower who fell asleep at the wheel and survived a terrible accident that killed his wife and only child. I dug deep into the emotions of my conflicted character as he struggled to cope with the crushing guilt but open his heart to the healing love of a woman and her son who enter his life. Truly seeing the world through someone else’s eyes, and experiencing aspects of depression, love, and remorse through him really took me to a deeper level of my craft.
As for the thanks-but-no-thanks list: I’m always looking to play roles that let me explore and experience the world through someone else’s eyes. I’m not just looking to just play myself. Or even worse, Jonathan. Joke!
Oh, and not to hate on naked zombie lovers, but . . . been there, flashed that.
Jonathan
Drew is an adrenaline junkie and incredibly athletic. I know he would be in his element given a superhero role. You can get a taste of this in our Season Two promo for Brother vs Brother, which had us flying through the air on wires and doing all kinds of crazy things. The stunt team from The Avengers actually trained us. At the top of the Ironman drop, I got butterflies, but Drew wanted it higher and faster!
I could also see Drew in an intense Law & Order-type drama. He’d make a great renegade detective who relies on advanced math or sheer muscle to solve all his cases. On the opposite end of the spectrum, he’s a total pushover when it comes to kids. He never gets tired of playing with them and they love his energy and goofiness. He’d be an awesome TV dad. Actually, that’s a role I can’t wait to see him play in real life!
What would I steer him away from? Accents. He’s got the conviction of Meryl Streep but everything somehow comes out in this bizarre mash-up of Bengali and brogue.
It’s no surprise that my most vivid childhood memory is from one of those long summer drives through the mountains. I was around 9. Our parents were in the front seat, holding hands across the console between them. Drew, JD, and I were all laughing our heads off about something in the back when I saw Mom lean over to kiss Dad. “I love you,” I heard her tell him softly.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard them say that before—they were crazy for each other, and still are after 51 years of marriage. But that day in the car, a wave of pure contentment washed over me, and I wanted my life to always feel exactly how it did in that simple moment. This is perfect, I thought.
I felt that way again on my wedding day twenty years later.
I’ve never shared much about the impact divorce had on me, because why put something so sad out there? The pain ended up outlasting the marriage. The split isn’t something I dwell on anymore, but for one too-long, too-dark period of my life, that’s practically all I did. It shook me right to the core.
We met during a time in my life when I was dabbling in real estate on the side and trying to launch a career as a full-time professional illusionist. I honed my “mysterious” image by wearing billowy white shirts to set off that sun-burnished glow I got by regularly zapping myself with ultraviolet light in one of those tanning beds that toast you like a human panini. I was booking occasional gigs and performing in competitions on local talk shows, and apparently I was convinced that irradiation would make my magic even more magical. I was going for a shade of George Hamilton Mahogany in a semi-gloss, and the only other way to achieve that would be to sunbathe naked on the equator every day at noon. I was feeling particularly confident one day and started flirting with a casual acquaintance who had the kind of quirky humor I like. When she suggested I come along that night as she was meeting up with a group of friends, I happily joined the party. We discovered that we had a lot in common and began dating.
I was still pretty new at the whole relationship thing. My first girlfriend, Jen, had been kind but quiet, and preferred a cozy night at home to going out, which I could appreciate sometimes—but not all the time. I was more high-energy. I liked going out with friends, being social, and doing anything but sitting in one place to collect dust.
Jen and I never fought, but I kept wondering: Is this what a relationship is? I had no basis for comparison. After a few years, it was clear that we were stuck at “perfectly pleasant.” But I wanted a cinematic love affair.*
*I’ll admit, Jonathan has always been a romantic through and through.
Anyway, we could have clung to our caring—if seemingly inert—relationship, but merely drifting along has never been enough for me. Difficult as it was, we needed to go our separate ways, accepting that we were simply different people who happened to be looking for different things. As my first girlfriend and the first person I uttered those three little words to, she’ll always hold a dear place in my heart. I’ve never had an unkind word to say about Jen, and it always makes me smile even decades later when I hear she has checked in with my parents to say hello.
With this new relationship, there was no doubt that our lifestyles were compatible. There had been an easy, natural progression from hanging out to casually dating, then seriously dating. Within a year we were living together. I was 24 years old, but unlike a lot of guys that age, I wasn’t a commitment-phobe. If anything, it was a relief to be off the market. I’ve had some embarrassing attempts at maki
ng contact with females of the species.*
*You’ve had some embarrassing attempts at even identifying your species.
If you mean that incident in Banff with the enraged bull elk chasing me through the woods, I was playing my bagpipes, not trying to seduce lady elk. Just a simple yet terrifying misunderstanding.
My uncanny ability to send the wrong signal goes back all the way to the third grade, which is the first time I thought I was falling in love.
There was this smart, beautiful girl in our class who was always drawing something, or doodling. Creativity, intelligence, good looks—she was a goddess, and I spent months trying to figure out a way to talk to her. Besides, of course, just going up to her and saying hi. That seemed far too lame for a woman of such mystery. Drew and I didn’t grow up with sisters hanging around, and all our friends were other boys, so we had no practice when it came to socializing with girls. The artist was about to be my beta test.
But first, I had to overthink every possible scenario. How would I even get her attention? Pretend I needed to sharpen my pencil every twenty minutes so I could walk past her desk and pointedly ignore her? Throw spitwads? Offer to sell her some of our decorative hangers at a friends-and-family discount? And where should this staged encounter take place? Did she already have an artsy boyfriend? LOL. The longer I waited, the more scenarios of what could go wrong my imagination concocted. The school PA system, for example. What if it was on, and my attempt to talk to The Goddess was broadcast to every classroom, then replayed in the cafeteria at lunchtime? For that matter, did the school code of conduct include a formal rule against talking to girls? Could I get detention? What if she just started crying? I was always scripting and starring in my own mental disaster flicks when I was a kid, and the tendency still sometimes creeps back into my decision-making process today. It’s exhausting.
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